


Sa femme vivante

by AlluringMary



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Codeword for reader's horny and frustrated, Emotional Manipulation, Erik is trash, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Graphic Description of Corpses, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mind Manipulation, No kidding he's just sewer trash and an incel, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Consensual Touching, Period Typical Bigotry, Reader-Insert, Victorian Attitudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2020-03-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:55:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23320567
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlluringMary/pseuds/AlluringMary
Summary: The workers call him a ghost, a phantom. Yet you've heard his voice, felt his touch. Whatever they claim him to be, the lust he has set ablaze inside of you is impossible to put out.There is only one cure.
Relationships: Erik | Phantom of the Opera/Reader, The Persian/Reader (Minor)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 69





	Sa femme vivante

Swirling mist curled around the man’s ankles, trailing from his cape and ending its soft, slow chase farther away on the stage floor. The figure was barely illuminated and yet through the smoke and poor lighting from the candles’ dying flames, you could still make out the silhouette of a man and the blackness of his clothes. The frame, the longer you focused on it, bore the marks of a lack of proper nutrition and while thin, the shape was tall.

You know not how much time you spent trying to put a name to the man but it became painfully clear that this was not one of the owner’s acquaintance for his outfit, even shrouded in darkness, lacked the flaring colors their friends usually wore or a stagehand or even one of the company’s performers. You knew the men well from ballet dancers, still extras to the tenor Guicciardi, you were the one constantly slaving away to care for their costumes. Never had you worked from these particular individual measurements.

Not knowing how to properly address the man and in fear of upsetting a man of rank who happened to get lost, you dumbly stuttered a meek, “My apologies Monsieur, the stage is off-limits.”

“Would you truly speak this way to the owner of the Opéra Populaire, Mademoiselle?”

The spoken words bore little interest to you for the voice, booming and superior, had stuck you in place. Your hold on the fabric grew rigid, uncaring of the creases you would soon need to iron out before commencing you work. All of these worries were thrown out of the window and in their stead, the voice burrowed and burned into your mind.

Uncaring of your sudden stillness, the man turned on his heel, cape whipping hard enough to displace the mist around him. Suddenly you were seized with the unreasonable pained sentiment that he would not speak again. Your fears were soon put to rest when he spoke once more, authoritative but drawling.

“Hurry back to where you came from lest you tempt my ire.”

The words this time took meaning and you shuddered in fear, now noticing the glint of pure whiteness peeking from the side of the man’s face. You held the rolls close to your chest, fixed on the figure as it advanced further into darkness before disappearing into nothingness. As soon as you lost sight of him, you tripped over your own two feet running through the bowels backstage to reach your station, heart pounding and face flushed from both the smooth tantalizing voice and the exertion of running in heels and the weight of your dress and fabric you held on for dear life.

You opened the door with a bang, your heavy charge dropping to the floor when you crossed the threshold. You startled another seamstress and she yelped in surprise. Pairs of eyes turned to you, many of their owners ready to reprimand you but before any could, you explained in between heavy breaths what you had just seen and chaos erupted.

One dancer, covering her naked breasts with her arms as she was in the middle of having her measurements taken, nearly broke into tears before screeching about the Ghost while another, a sole sleeve haphazardly pinned around her arm simply screamed, tears collecting in her eyes.

“I knew it! I knew it!” Another sobbed, inconsolable, “I knew it was all true!”

“You best hope this isn’t some kind of sick joke!” A senior seamstress came to your side, far more focused on picking up the fabric at your feet. You numbly joined in, sweat collecting on your skin.

“Look how shaken that poor thing is!” Piped in a performer, busy comforting another girl, “That is not a liar’s face.”

“It doesn’t matter!” It was the woman, Huguette, assisting you with regrouping the fabric, “All of you get back to work! Nothing bad happened and it will remain that way if you focus on your duties.” That last snide comment was directed towards you and you cowered under her piercing gaze, “What were you doing on the stage anyway, _petite_ _tête de linotte 1_?”

Lacking a good excuse besides a weak lie about seeing _it_ and wanting to investigate the noises, you attempted to stammer out a lame excuse and madame Huguette spoke under her breath, sending a poor stagehand in the middle of throwing out scraps of fabric and bouts of threads to warn monsieur Buquet about the potential rigging of the stage. She goes along with the orders but not without exchanging frightened looks with the other women in the room.

Later, the purr of the Singer machine has lulled you into a sense of sense of security and you are eased into your project – a bright red and golden shirt being worked into signore Guicciardi’s criteria. The low voices from your coworkers – only allowed to use classic needles and thread in contrast of the heavy sewing machine only a few of you are allowed to use – make themselves heard as you take time to feed the cloth into the machine. The talks of your sighting has taken a toll on some and become a subject of rapt attention to others – meaning most think it is all a clever lie and the rest freely gossip about the mystery man rumored to be paid twenty thousands francs every month for haunting this damned opera house.

From then on, you always hated leaving the first sub-level and venturing backstage or anywhere near the stage may it be to fetch a girl from the corps de ballet or to fetch a delivery. Madame Huguette would hear nothing of it and you relied on her forceful hand to justify your insatiable need to hear the Ghost’s voice a second time.

Your involvement in the company was new, while you had already proved yourself as a trained costumier with the last performances of Axur Re d’Ormus, you risked a lot by prodding around the idea of the Opera Ghost, especially after last month’s meltdown. Still, you longed for that voice to posses you once more, to feel the hidden strength of the mellow tone robbing you of all reason and senses. It was getting hard not to swoon from the fading memory when you lost yourself in your daydreaming in public and in particular around your fellow costumiers.

* * *

Never had you ever thought lust would be the end of you.

You had thought perhaps you would crush your hand in the unforgiving jaws of a mangle since your being air-headed had always been a recurring subject among your family and friends or that you’d meet an early and tragic end at the hands of a mugger as you were prone to get lost so easily in the unfamiliar Parisian arrondissements2.

But never, never, had your pure immortal soul been threatened by the unholy blight of lust. The latter directed towards a terrifying, leathery claws ofthe opera Ghost at that!

Then again, if your mother and bible were to be trusted, the singular thought of a sinful action was enough to damn you, so evidently there was little reason _not to_ pursue the dulcet voice infused with rich melody. If it was a fact that it was too late for your redemption, the only logical response would be to sin and later face the consequences regardless of your past actions – let your poor self have some fun before the final blow.

* * *

Madame Giry is the first one of the company’s higher-ups to come to you after your encounter with the Ghost. Her gloomy stride and stern aspect alone whip you into correcting your posture and readjusting your skirts where you sit on the floor, your hands working to properly pin the dancer’s dress closed during her fitting – a last minute replacement after the first role had fallen and sprained her ankle, the new dancer at least doesn’t pass her time complaining about the slightest thing.

“Madame,” The dancer greets, grown still from her instructor’s arrival, “What brings you down here?”

“Am I doomed to spend the rest of my days in the studio?” She fires back, her gaze falling to you as the dancer trips over herself to find a proper response. “Mademoiselle, I need to speak to you about this precise costume, quite urgently so.”

“Now is quite perfect then,” You turn back to the work ahead, sliding the last dressmaker pin into place, taking great care in avoiding to prick the dancer with it. The sleeves are a tad too tight for this one dancer and the seams will need to be ripped before you can progress any further. In the middle of your explanation, the choreographer brings down her cane upon the ground and effectively silences both dancer and you.

“This discussion is not for all ears,” She says after a bout of silence, pointedly never taking her eyes of you, “Come to me once you find the time.”

When she leaves, the wraith of a girl you had been helping lets out a breath and then a nervous giggle, “Do you reckon this is about your sighting of… it?”

“Speak plain,” You say, now getting up to fetch your chalk to mark where to cut the material.

“The Ghost!” She says, not so discreetly. For once you find yourself thankful of the emptiness of the costume department. Despite the opera house being less than a decade old, it was hard not to obsess over the potential soul haunting the cold and persistently musty hallways and the odd spy.

“Oh please,” You hide your bemusement well, or you like to think so at very least, “It must have been someone playing a mean trick on me.” That again was a lie but you couldn’t let in everyone about your _damned_ infatuation – the shame!

“You heard his voice,” She shudders under the strokes of chalk on the back of her corsetand soon modestly covers herself when you take the pins out and go to lay out the piece of clothing, “The others say he took a sword to your throat!”

You couldn’t stop the crass questioning sound you made if you tried, “He wouldn’t be much of a Ghost then, would he now?”

She seems disappointed, very much so, “Oh…” The ballet girls, for some unknown reason, have taken the curious habit to latch onto any tales of the extraordinaire and shiver with delight and fear at the prospect of hearing more about the opera Ghost. She quickly gathers her things still and is soon out of your hair after checking when her costume might be ready.

It seems like you step into another world when you cross into the corps de ballet’s studio, so much chatter in between the loud recital music coming from the piano seemingly shoved in the corner away from the mirrors. A man hunches over it, playing a same piece on loop. You always watch the spectacle from the sidelines, always worried a seam may come loose from a performer’s skirts or a dancer’s back might come undone with those exaggerated movements. But witnessing the act of practice is more intimate, seeing the dancers lose their poised posture and fake smile to focus on their steps and the girls around them.

It’s surreal looking at them float so easily into the air and coming down hard onto the floor, the hard noise of their shoes coming down upon the ground is oddly pleasing to the ear.

Madame Giry is made aware of your presence and she isolates the both of you by walking further away from the mirrors, “I had thought you’d never come,” Her accent has never been this pronounced before, you can feel the Southern singing tint creep into her speech when she speaks so low, “Now, would tell me what has got my dancers all atwitter? Teaching them grows tedious when their attention is so diverted.”

“I apologize for any inconvenience I may have caused, Madame.” You’re careful to keep your voice down as not to draw any extra attention to your discussion, wary of the echo the studio provides, “It was never my attention.”

“You are a new addition to our company, I am sure we both know it would be unwise to lie about such matters so early into your employment.” The music putters to a stop and she briefly turns to bring down her cane, spurring the pianist to start the piece anew.

“I could never risk my place among this opera house, Madame.” You reach for words able to express your distress at the risk of raising your voice but the choreographer’s face softens somewhat, a slight curl appears on her dark-painted lips.

“You may be a recent one, but you are a valuable asset to us, Mademoiselle. Do not fret and tell me what you have seen.”

“The girls,” You spared a glance towards the dancers, “They call him the opera Ghost but I believe I only saw a man.” Spurred by her inquiring look, you go on to describe the events of what occurred a few nights ago, the words he spoke etched into your mind, the nonsensical mist flowing off him. When you are finished, she looks pensive, a neatly styled fingernail tapping on the top of her cane, following the beat of the music.

“He couldn’t have been a ghost,” You murmur, encouraged by her silence, “A ghost wouldn’t have let himself be so easily seen… no?”

“No...” She looks up towards the rafters as if reaching for an explanation before her dark eyes fall back onto you, “No, I don’t think one would.”

“Madame, I am worried about this. What if the man shows himself again, it may be all silly tales but…” You huff out a breath, “Madame, it seems dangerous to let a stranger roam about.”

“I am sure that if it were indeed a man that you saw, it would have been a simple joke. You _are_ quite new here, it is common practice for Monsieur Buquet to scare my most recent dancers. It might be the same for you.”

No, no. The Voice had been otherworldly, echoing from the deepest chasm there ever was. It had to be, if not a man, something beyond that. If it were a man, it would not have been a mere stagehand playing tricks on you – you could tell the difference between the sonorous words of condemnation of a superior being and the misshapen tremble of a freshly developed voice of a snickering _stagehand_ for God’s sake!

Seizing yourself, you blissfully realized none of these observations had made it out of your mouth, “If it had been one of the stagehands, I believe I would have recognized it and this one voice… Madame I don’t think I ever heard one like this in my entire life.”

Strangely, her eyes widened and her lips gave a subtle twitch – it would understandably be the most blatant hint you’d ever get. She understood what you meant. A moment of silence passed between you and the piece puttered to an end. She turned to give more instructions to the dancers who, despite their obvious fatigue, fell into various positions. The music started anew and she faced you once more, her features now schooled.

All talks of the Voice seemed stupid now, the moment broken and the evidence wiped form her face. It took far longer than what would be considered usual before you amiably offered a more jovial, “I suppose the costumes are to your satisfaction then?”

Just now remembering why she had invited you here beforehand, she poses a hand onto your shoulder as she walks you towards the exit, “They are, although I have heard that the red satin sleeves may be too _gaudy_.”

“I knew it!” You find yourself exclaiming, stomach now settled and ready to broach a far more familiar and easy subject even if it were a false sense of normalcy. You remembered your dubious frown when this pesky material had found its way onto your station, “We should have went for cotton, I simply knew it.”

* * *

The owner makes a point not to come fetch you himself but instead sends an emissary in the form of monsieur Buquet to question you. You’ve just come from outside accompanied by two junior seamstresses from a quick lunch when the machinist stops you dead in your tracks, grumbling first far louder than it is proper about cold you’ve let in before telling you to follow.

“Lefèvre’s asking for you,” He gives you in lieu of a greeting, gruff as can be even when looking over the other two women at your side, “You better not keep him waiting Mademoiselle.” He heads off before saying anything else and you three are left reeling from the crude man’s approach to it all.

You take off hat, gloves, scarf and winter coat, handing them to your friends before heading off in a hurry, quick steps taking you to monsieur Lefèvre’s bureau. You walk through the lesser levels of the opera house, going from the cold halls adjacent to the stage door to the lavish and warm part of this beauty of a building. Your loud steps on the stone floor turn to hushed thuds over the rich red carpet leading to the grand ballroom and main entrance. Progressively, you worry the hem of your sleeves, one look at your well-kept but glaringly old-fashioned frock and self-consciousness envelops you like a second skin. You feel inadequate walking around in this worn-in dress, these worn-in shoes in such a delicate and sophisticated setting.

So much so that when you reach the owner’s office, a nonsensical feeling of shame has made its way into your head and brought a flare onto your cheeks. You knock on the door, taking a deep breath when an answer to come in finally comes. The door slides open under your hand and Lefèvre’s hand waves in your direction, you immediately turn to close it.

“Finally!” He starts with, an easy smile forming on his aging face, “I feared you may have gotten lost my dear.” He rises from his chair, in doing so pushing loose papers around on his large desk, ranging from music sheets to stamped orders, he hints at the seats on the other of his desk and you mutely sit down. “God only knows how this place feels like a labyrinth!” The old man has always been an odd duck, yet you refused to attribute this to his age, you liked to think he was eccentric all on his own.

“Oh”, he rummaged through papers and extended a plate of biscuits that you demurely refused with a negative wave of your hand and a polite response, “Ah well. Business can be such a boring affair, I did not want to bore you so soon after meeting you Mademoiselle.”

“Business, Monsieur?” You worried your hands into your lap, if this offering of sweets had been meant as a way to soften the blow of unemployment, you’d rather have it now. “I am terribly sorry, have I done something wrong?”

“God no!” He said, so serious and solemn all of a sudden, truly offended by your suggestion, “I have only heard praise from Mesdames Huguette and Giry, your designs have been quite well liked by both guests and patrons, my dear.” The owner turned his attention back to his papers, riffling through them and still talking, “I have more pressing concerns at the forefront of my mind.” He looked over his glasses towards you, stacking some forms together, “If our troop is to believed, you have seen _him_ , haven’t you?”

“Well, Monsieur...”

“I encourage you to keep this to yourself,” He merely says, his once soft tone turning firmer, “Salieri’s piece is far too complicated for our company to brood over some ghost, I am sure you understand.”

_But he was no Ghost._ You don’t dare to say it and come up with an understanding answer, nodding meekly under his stare.

You’re dismissed after the conversation ends on a better note – _“Do you know I have cousins living in the Strand? This theater you worked for – lovely place I’ve been told!”_ – and scurry away into the bowels of the opera, thankful for once to hear the familiar reverberation of your steps in between the cold stone walls you have grown so fond of. It’s hard not to succumb to fear here and there. How many people have already tried to get more details from you? How many more will come then? How many will deny who he is? What he is?

_Who was this man with this entrancing tenor voice?_ _The one who ensnared you and has kept you replaying those soulful words in your mind for days now?_

And where can you find him?

* * *

Gossip starts anew, the womenbuzzing like flies as needles pierce cloth, scissors cut through fabric and machines rumble. The scraps of textile clinging to the mannequins look like poor patchworks rather than proper projects and so the work grows quicker. Madame Huguette has to be vigilant in supervising you all, ensuring the team beneath the earth keep a deft hand and proper eye no matter how fast and long you must slave over the costumes.

A fire burns hot and bright in the back, pleasantly crackling as it is fed more firewood by a sooty little stagehand, young this one. He works fast, quickly exiting after his work is done and giggles follow him out of the door.

You are halted in your work when signore Guicciardi sends the property master to complain about his costume’s poor fitting. Being the sole responsible for the man’s wardrobe after the other aide has fallen ill – you shiver at the mere prospect of tuberculosis nowadays – you drop everything to follow the man upstairs and into his dressing room, sliding your measuring tape over your neck and tying your sewing necessities around your waist.

In your wild lap, you stumble upon some steps, skirts hitched up to avoid falling flat on your face. The stairwells always appear so cavernous with only the light of one candle lighting the way, especially when it is not you who holds it but a man, far faster and more adept than you at climbing these monstrous steps. Evidently, you arrive tired and wet in the face but quick Italian quips and protests spur you into action.

“The chest is too tight! How do you expect me to sing in this condition?” He barks, while far more subdued than other opera singers and when he is not simpering at the owner’s feet, the man has a temper rivaling that ofa tornado.

You spend most of your time in this impromptu fitting attempting to calm the tenor, calling for his senses under the powerless gaze of the property master who also tries his hardest to settle the man.

In the end, you end up bringing back the entire outfit, tears of fury springing from your eyes. It was that pathetic excuse of a seamstress that had mucked this monstrosity of a garment up and you were to be on the receiving end of his complaints?

Pure and simple insanity!

You hadn’t even touched the _design_ of this garish costume, nevertheless sewn it!

“Damn him!” You spit, the property master – having similarly told off about the color of the bracelets he had presented the performer with – scoffed from behind you.

He followed your exclamation with an equally frustrated, “May he rot!”

“In the deepest circles of Hell.”

You both stop dead in your tracks, him stumbling into your back. You narrowly miss falling down the large stretch of winding steps upon hearing the sinister voice echo through the staircase. It is the same one, so deep and rich. Your heart that you could have sworn had stopped its beating is sent into a wild chase, its beat hard and relentless in your chest.

In a second, the spell is broken, the powerful voice that had ruled you into obedient silence is trumped by the sudden, harsh and so off-putting quip from the man behind you, “By God...” The Voice doesn’t speak again and your heart sinks after a minute of waiting spent in silence.

This time around it’s not you who runs off to tell the tale of the Voice – Monsieur Bonbonne is the one who set himself on this damned path to embellish the meager encounter. Perhaps he is the one going on his way wagging his tongue about the Ghost swooping down through the stairwell, Machiavellian laugh and swooping cape in tow or perhaps the corps de ballet are at it again.

Which would not be that surprising to be perfectly honest.

* * *

Your room – if it was even worthy of the name – was a small space flanked by dozen others on the floor. In here was packed a tiny creaking bed under the sole window and an imposing wardrobe from a few decades ago taking most of the space your lodging allowed. In this monstrosity resided your hung clothes, travel trunks at the bottom of it and whatever fabric gleaned from opera’s last seasons you might need to sew or mend.

It was usually a free-for-all with the seamstresses at the front of the line but some lovely shimmery material had come into your possession as a reward. Looking at the bright, new textile gathering dust always brought a pang of hurt inside your chest but you daren’t touch them, afraid you’d muck it all up and degrade it. It was better off staying there while you made up your mind.

After laying down today’s undergarments on your bed, your turned to the modest basin near your bed and leaned into the mirror, bemoaning the pallid look of the face staring back at you. The cold chill that had settled overnight and this early morning quickly snapped you back into your daily routine and you were soon putting on your shift, tying the corset’s laces and placing your petticoat atop your hips, cautious to see it surely tied and for the pockets to be accessible through your dress. The long sleeves fail to hug your arms as tightly as you’d like and the collar sits oddly around your throat but a look at the clock sitting atop your modest nightstand urges you to cease your fretting.

You’re stopped only once in your mad dash to catch the omnibus by the disapproving landlady Caron who snipes about your leaving the bed warmer in your room for too long – “Are you trying to bring my house down in flames?!”

You never understood the woman’s mighty standards for you when all around your room were downtrodden artists and poor musicians permanently late or short on their rents when yours always came promptly and in full. The wild life and seemingly never ending music and talks in the street of the Latin quarter offered a breath of fresh air compared to home and its _stillness_.

What you liked above all else about your housing arrangements was the closeness of it to the opera. The 5th arrondissement may not be next door to it but just a bit over half an hour and you’d already be walking up to the stage door.

It doesn’t hurt either that rent is quite reasonably priced too. You always put aside a portion of your weekly wages, using only a little extra with the other girls when you hunger for a sweet thing to sip or nibble on. You’re lucky enough the opera house pays more than back home, it’d be a shame to go back to square one because of base gluttony.

This very noon, two junior seamstresses and a tiny ballerina join you for lunch and all four of you thread through the first arrondissement, mingling with the crowd in the Tuileries garden. The opera looks over the Palais Bourbon but among a group facing the sharply-dressed politicians doesn’t feel so strange. The river separating the two building helps to send frigid gusts of wind your way and you file into a far less sophisticated café soon enough, giggling like little girls when taking your seats.

Conversation goes smoothly enough, the dancer Pasqualina is a fresh addition to the company and judging by the way she’d greeted you earlier already knows you. She has a kind of smile that your mother would have judged unladylike, one not afraid to spread over her face and bring a light to her eyes.

“You fitted me last week,” She explains when you still cannot recall meeting her, “I took Quiteria’s place in the ballet.”

Augustine, the oldest of all of you by some years frowns into her coffee, bringing the cup down onto the table. Usually soft-spoken, she has to raise her voice to be heard over the other patrons of the eatery, “You mean to tell us you willingly put on this hideous yellow?”

You pain to refrain laughter when Pasqualina grows red, unsure if it’d be wise to defend the costume or her friend. She has a habit of shooting off at the mouth you deduce; not aware of the immediate consequences her words can bring. That would explain why she’d asked so blatantly why madame Giry had been doing in the workshop.

As the two speak together about the poor color choice, the girl at your side keeps stirring her own tea, not touching the plate in front of her. When you turn to ask her if she’s alright, she pounces, worrying her lower lip between her teeth – yet another one unafraid of the odd looks she might receive from the people surrounding you. Perhaps the workshop has warped all of your minds and rid you of proper manners.

Nevertheless she speaks, “What did he look like?”

While the two women sitting in front of you seemed to be in a heated argument about the proper use of magenta in dressmaking, they turn at the query and once again their attention is brought onto you.

“Excuse me?”

“The Ghost.” She presses, finally settling her spoon to the side of the cup, “You saw him, didn’t you?”

“I only saw half a face in the shadows.” Your goal is to shoot down this bird before it can take flight, “And that half was a mask.”

“Buquet says he’s disfigured. Skin like parchment paper stretching thin and hollow eyes...” Ausgustine proceeds, “Like a living corpse.”

You let them speculate between one another, choking on your bite when Pasqualina makes a guess as to whether _everything_ of his would be stretched thin. Thankfully your table falls into a pile of giggles by the time the check comes – you can barely talk as you make your way back to the theater, still reeling and joking.

* * *

Things have been going better, far better than they should be going. Monsieur Lefèvre has struck a charitable chord from one of the benefactors of the theater and your weekly pay has been bumped to a bold thirty francs per week for the next month. On top of it all, your designs (with Monsieur Bonbonne’s proposed accessories) for a new production has been approved, meaning a generous bonus is soon to find its way into your purse. The Ghost has also made no appearance as of yet, elevating his absence to three months now and with it, your nerves have sustained a steady rest, your mind solely fixed on your work.

You’re tempted to write about the fantastic news – of course saving some far more _supernatural_ details – to your sister and that thought alone brings down this new life in an instant.

The day is going perfect, Guicciardi has been amiable to the fitting with little to no fretting – incredibly rare for this man – recent deliveries have been overseen by another seamstress and you had thus no need to approach backstage and even better, your landlady had caught a slight sickness and doesn’t grace you with her daily complaints – and will not do so for some time still.

Evidently, there will always be conflict in such a cramped and tight place as the workshop. There are many seamstresses, may they be junior, senior or supervisors who are passionate about their profession and who are not afraid to shy away from competition. You have never pretended to be friends with every single one of them before but you’d at least expected amicability from them despite everyone’s needs to prove themselves and your, ahem, immigrant status.

You’d spent years slaving away over those French lessons – self-taught might you add! And those not so discreet jeers about the protestant and her unpleasant accent – at first you’d managed to set them aside but their toll escalated as the number of people spreading those insults – grew in number. These remarks had come to disparage your work, the snickers amplified as more of it garnered attention and made its way onto the stage and the theater gazette.

The sketches of dancers and singers alike, you personally thought, were beautiful and rendered so perfectly on ink and paper. It was, unfortunately, the fact that your name appeared in the column below the picture that brought misfortune to your doorstep.

Well, not _literally_.

The night of the premiere was spectacular and the sparkling wine you’re given in the gala afterwards makes your head spin. Your new rose red gown, made precisely for the occasion, fits almost seamlessly among the crowd – you don’t even regret not hiring jewelry. The bright velvet of it and your humble gold bracelet are enough to catch the eye, the manager takes you on his arm to meet the patrons and benefactors, madame Giry is right by your side throughout a good portion of the event and addresses her compliments along dozens of others.

Pasqualina is there, catching the attention of more than one man, bluntly stating when you’d asked, “Those men, they like ballerinas. Don’t ask me why, I don’t want your face to end up matching your dress.”

The memorable part of the evening is spent convincing an eccentric noble with a fat purse that purchasing one of the production’s costumes at this very moment would set the theater behind a week at the very least – it takes the better part of half an hour to settle for a copy of the original that will be delivered in the week.

You cast way the notion of sleep for the coming week but the obnoxious payment for his small feat is far more than enough balm for this hurt.

Soon after the event, hearing your name will no longer be a pleasant appeal accompanied by a polite curtsy and an exchange of names. It will resound as a curse on the place stretching behind the opera house. You turn towards the sound, not thinking much of it and are faced with a blast from the past. It comes to you like a punch in the gut once you come to terms with whom is approaching in grand strides.

You know the man, far more intimately than you’d ever like. This impromptu reunion is also far from ideal, situation-wise even more so. You’re far too close to the theater, anyone could see the two of you from any window – especially the dancers as they lived in the northernmost point of the living quarters, even more gossip to add to the pile surely. It doesn’t help that dusk has fallen and the man has more than one advantage at his belt if he needs you to keep quiet.

The man, though a subordinate to a larger threat, has a nose thrice-broken that gives him a raspier tone when he speaks. “At last!” He mockingly greets, finding in himself the dignity not to lean down for a handshake or a kiss. “You are a hard person to find, do you know that?”

He surely notices your discomfort, the rapid hare-like glances you throw around to spot a helping figure in the nighttime. The place is barely illuminated by lampposts struggling to burn bright on your unlikely pair.

“What is it that you want Drystan?” You daren’t look up when you speak, you’re far more worried about anyone from the company catching sight of you two together and the ensuing implications.

“You’ve been drinking, haven’t you,” He asks, catching the smell of alcohol in your breath. “Now now, what would your sister say about this, huh?” The mere notion of her awakens a fury inside you.

“Keep her name out of your mouth.” You press, nails digging into your palms even through your gloves.

“No need to get angry now,” He falsely placates, amusement dancing in his voice. He’d always had a sadistic penchant in getting people around him to lose their temper. “You already know why I’m here, kitten.” He revels in the lock of your jaw at the pet name but keeps going, “Just tell where she is. And don’t--” He harshly interrupts you when you open your mouth to object, “--fucking lie to me.”

“I do not lie.” Well to be truthful, it _is_ a lie but how can he possibly judge you? “And I do not know where she went. But wherever she is, she’s safer there than with him.”

“She made an oath.” Anger visibly bubbled inside of him, “He only ever did what had to be done. He only wants his wife back at home.”

“She made that oath when she was a child.”

“A woman at eighteen years of age is hardly a child.”

“She regrets it! She wants nothing to do with that man and little more to do with you!”

“She needs to make things right,” He doesn’t touch you but you hear the slash of metal in the air, the silent threat of a blade, “And you need to speak.” You catch sight of the blade, the light barely catching onto it, so dull and used the knife must be. You immediately look away from it, feeling your pulse quicken and fear curling up into your throat.

“I don’t know where she is!” You say much louder than you should have, cursing whoever may have heard you in the night, “She didn't tell me where she went!”

“Quit lying to me!” The tip of his weapon comes to rest above your navel, you swear you can feel the coldness of it despite the layers in between it and your skin. “If you’re not willing to speak now, I’ll pass by where you work then,” With a tilt of his head, he points to the opera house behind you and the mere prospect of him waltzing in and coining you as a woman of ill-repute to the eyes of the company and especially the _manager_ brings tears to your eyes, “Or where you live, I have my ways, don’t you forget that.”

“What will it be then?”

The backstage door closes with a bang, that is you hear the sound distantly from where you’re already walking away from it. One of the stagehands had let you in, confused by the ruckus but he had promised to fetch madame Giry as soon as he had seen the urgency written all over your face.

She hasn’t changed just yet but her braid is looser than it should reasonably be and her lips and eyes have already wiped clean of make-up. “Mademoiselle, I heard distressing news. Are you alright?”

You attempt to put on a smile but you can feel it comes out more as a grimace and she doesn’t seem fooled, “I only missed the last omnibus, I was hoping to stay for the night… If that isn’t much trouble of course.” She clearly doesn’t believe your tale but as composed and proper as she is, she doesn’t touch it and nods, delicate hand posed on your shoulder to guide you upstairs.

“Of course, I could not possibly sleep at night knowing you were wandering these streets in the dark.” Her tone sounds off somehow, she’s hesitant of course but not reluctant. “We may be able to find you some nightclothes as well.”

Nerves still frayed, you don’t find sleep easily. The unfamiliar setting doesn’t help either nor does the memory of the knife pressing against your clothes. A nightmare, it must be a nightmare. As soon as sleep finds you, it’ll all go away and you’ll wake up in the morning in your own bed. You’ll take a towel bath in the morning, spend your day off patching up an old petticoat to give more volume to your skirt, gossip with your neighbor about the others, anything as close to the ordinary as possible.

For the tenth time tonight, you peel back the covers and sit up in bed, the cold air racking shivers down your spine. Your socked feet are silent when you walk up to the door, the wood beneath your feet doesn’t make a sound. The door creaks open and you close it behind you as not to disturb any of the dancers sleeping in the room, your wrap your lent robe tightly around your waist – futile move as it doesn’t fend off the cold properly.

A small fire burns in the hearth, casting a soft light onto the two seats posed in front of it. Madame Giry looks up, alarmed before sighing through her nose and setting down her book.

“Do you have trouble finding sleep?”

“I’m sorry, you’ve done a lot.” You sit down in the sofa after she extends a hand towards it, “I hope I am not bothering you.”

“Not at all,” Again, her voice takes on this pretty Southern tint before another sigh leaves her, “I have heard some news.”

“Is this about my staying here? I am terribly sorry, I shouldn’t have assumed--”

“No, no. Calm yourself now.” She shuts you down with remarkable ease, “You will always be welcome here, I have already told you the company greatly values you.” She squares her shoulders and leans forward, as if to get a better look at you, “I am talking about the visitor you had earlier.”

“Madame. I promise you this is not an issue you have to worry about.”

“Will that man be back? Please, be honest with me.”

“You saw him?” Confusion quickly overpowers the panic that had been steadily growing inside of you, “I didn’t think anyone--”

“Mademoiselle,” She interrupts, “If this man poses a threat to you, then this matter is far bigger than either of us.” There’s no fighting the tears then, you curse yourself for your weakness – in front of Giry no less. She continues in a hushed, calmer voice, “Come now, there is no need for this. Please.”

“My sister and I… We grew up in a...” You’re stuck on the word, switching to English, “ _...workhouse_ with our mother after our father passed. I worked at a young age but my sister – younger sister, she fancied herself a lady. She wanted to get married as soon as she could and quit the workforce.”

“And she did, didn’t she?”

A sob, caught between an exasperated sigh and a laugh made its way out of your throat and you nodded, “She met this man, not a good man by any mean. He married her in a month, they avoided the Banns, ran off to Manchester and I didn’t hear from any of them for months. Our mother passed away in that time...” Madame Giry offered her condolences, somehow you’d just now noticed how she’d lost her severe air. “I left Lambeth and I started working for Her Majesty’s theater.”

“Beautiful work, I heard.”

“Early years… I had the most awful taste when it came to dresses. I learned the hard way that yellow never did suit blondes.”

Somehow that did get a laugh out of the choreographer, her fingers came to caress the cross dangling from her neck, “My daughter loves this color, she would surely be very upset if she heard you.”

“How old is she?”

“Just about nine,” You share an intimate look and she continues talking about her, obviously proud of her child, “Méganne, she prefers Meg still.”

“A beautiful name for a very talented girl, I can only assume.”

“That she is, she just started her training… Oh, please continue. I didn’t mean to derail this discussion.”

“It’s quite alright… Well, my sister came to me one day, burst into my flat like a harpy.” A bout of uncertainty overcame you all at once and you fixed an alarmed look on her. “You must promise me that you will not speak of this to anyone, I beg you.”

“I would not risk your secret, I assure you.”

You sighed, slowly breathing in and out to calm yourself. “Very well. She came into my flat and she talked a mile a minute, she was in hysterics. I calmed her down as best as I could, and I noticed the bruises. Her husband had been violent towards her, for nearly a year and now--” Madame Giry let out a strangled yelp, color draining from her face, “--she was expecting his child. I welcomed her in my home but soon, her husband found us.”

“You hid her then?”

“I gave her enough coin to flee somewhere to wait out the birth. And after her husband grew impatient, I had to leave myself. That is not to say I regret my time here, never. I am glad for every opportunity this company has ever given me.”

Silence was punctured by her quiet whisper, “Yet you will leave.”

“This man you saw me with, Drystan. He is only a danger to me and me alone, the sooner I leave, the less trouble he will give you. I will have to contact my sister and from there… Well only time will tell.”

“She’s already given birth, correct?”

“Yes,” Something painful tugged at your heart and tears once more drew a path onto your face. You’d only ever heard about your niece in writing. “A little girl, with a good set of lungs I last heard.” You both shared a chuckle, the fire had been slowly dying as you talked, firewood decreasing as the flames licked at it.

“You should rest now,” She said, rather quickly, “We will speak further in the morning.”

“I have kept you for so long, my apologies.” You got up as she did and were pleasantly surprised when she took your hand.

“Please, do not worry about this. Sleep now and tomorrow might bring good fortune. And please, don’t make such a hasty decision now, come to me when you wake.”

Highly doubtful, you only nodded and bid her goodnight, slipping back into the silent room. The robe founds its way onto the back of a chair and you laid back down, astonished when sleep came to claim you so quickly.

Once morning came, you rose before the other girls slumbering away and put on your clothes, the red gown weighing far more on your conscience. It felt like a waste now, how long would it take for you to make back the money spent on it? And how much time did you have until then?

Morosely, you continued with your routine and stopped in shock when your jewelry was nowhere to be found. The bracelet had been a flimsy thing with a locket that often came apart with the tiniest bare cross slid through it. It did have certain sentimental value as it belonged to your late grandmother but it would have been a good asset to sell since it was gold. Yet another stroke of bad luck.

You thought back to Drystan pulling at your wrist and ripping your glove in the process, his filthy fingers had most likely hooked into the chain and tore it from your wrist when he’d taken your glove.

With a heavy heart, you walk out and silently close the door. Madame Giry was wrong, sleep had proven to do nothing for your nerves even if her reassuring words still rang true in your mind. You’d need to make arrangements to leave the capital today and if that wasn’t possible – may it be lack of funds or cowardice – you’d need to hide deeper into the Latin quarter. Surely a lesser company would need a pair of hands so deep into the season.

Missing a glove and a bracelet was yet another damper on your mood but nothing that would not be fixed by a walk in the cold February morning. The sun was had not yet risen over the horizon, the ensuing darkness plunging the opera in darkness.

A song, light but clear descended upon you then. You stopped in your stride to listen to it, you did not recognize the language but it sounded joyous, radiating of innocent merriment. Slowly, you looked up and upon looking up at the ceiling you wondered who could sing in such an angelic voice.

You were tempted to go out and find out for yourself but were petrified at the thought of missing one single note. It was undeniable that the song drifted from above... As far as you could tell at the very least. You wondered whose living quarters rested atop of you.

It was enchanting tune you didn’t even attempt to try and comprehend – it was simply beautiful.

You briefly thought it was Italian but again, the lyrics passed right through you, your mind glossing over them in favor of the melodious voice echoing.

Your mind finally recognized the gorgeous tenor voice; it was the same one from all those past months, the exact same one that had left you bereft in its absence. Was he aware of all the power that his voice carried, the ensuing lust that overtook you, the resounding sadness he left in his wake?

It was surely intentional, a necessary part of this sick seduction and you were falling for it, melting into the mysterious voice without putting up a fight.

The song grew in volume, stronger and louder than it ever was before. Your eyes closed all on their own, controlled by a force higher than you. The chant was beautiful yes, lofty, sweet. It called to you on a base level, carefully cultivating the need that had resided in you since the very first spoken words.

Inexplicably the melody changed, trading its raw power for a child-like lullaby. It bore an appeasing tone and dizziness overtook you. You were at risk of tipping over – so far gone that you were, you didn’t entertain the idea of scouring the darkness to find him for more than a second.

Cold slithered around you, encircling you in a most delicious manner. This hold spread from your waist to your wrists, from the small of your back to the nape of your neck. The song came to a close, the end bringing tears to your eyes. You felt petulant, ready to sob in frustration after this sudden end – you wished for it to go on forever. The cold touch tightened around your wrists and a plaintive whine left your lips.

The Voice hushed you, a glacial hand curled around your throat, not to choke you, you realized in your haze, but to hold you in place. Your wrist was similarly seized, the cold radiating from the Ghost hampered by the rough feel of leather around your skin. Again not tight but restrictive, possessive.

Those simple acts grounded you at last and your eyes fluttered open, your mind still huddled by the Ghost’s glamour, the devilish charm. It made you unable to resist and even risk an attempt at dislodging his hands. “Who...” This came out weakly, far weaker than you’d intended for it to sound.

“ _Taisez-vous_ ,3” He compelled you, his whispers hot into your ear. You obeyed. “The dancers cannot hear you, they would not care to even if they could.” A rough thumb grazed against the sensitive skin underneath your jaw, “You mean to leave us.”

Robbed of speech, you acquiesced. You were prepared to give him waves upon waves of explanations and apologies. You were left tortured between remaining silent by his order or justifying yourself. But why, why would he ever need to do so? Who was he to lord over you?

You made a half-hearted attempt to get away but all was thwarted by the growing grip around your wrist and the suave words he spoke next. “Calm yourself,” A hint of annoyance shone through his voice. You whimpered, torn. “You will not leave the opera.”

“But, Drsytan...” By now he’d most definitely written--

“All your worries have been dealt with.” The Voice never lost its ethereal quality despite the cascade of emotions pouring through it. “Now...”

A nudge, as delicate as can be, from him made you sit down into the seat by the cold hearth. In pure darkness, his face remained a mystery save from the sliver of white the mask offered. His hand had remained around your throat, stroking your skin. With a firm pressure from his thumb, you turned your face away.

“ _Dor_ _mez_.4” He ordered, trading passion for the lullaby-like tone from earlier.

Afraid he would leave, you clung to the hand teasing your skin. It was impossible to deny the disappointment you felt at the feel of leather instead of skin. Instead of the reprimand you expected, a low chuckle resounded in the darkness.

"Your voice… It’s beautiful.” The words seemed to tumble out of your mouth in an uncontrolled flow.

Amused but no less sweeter, he asked, “Would you like to hear me sing for you again?”

The song began anew and with its growing volume, it cast away all fear or doubt remaining. Once more your eyes fluttered closed, a smile drawing on your lips. The pure talent in his voice ensnared you, the melody trapping you in this enamored state.

In between verses he murmured words of appreciation, mingling them with sweet melody. “You are an enchanting beauty, such as no eye has ever yet seen. Are you such an _ingénue 5_, you do not dare face this... or are you a sulfurous Carmen, tempting me so?”

Slowly his speech tittered on the brink of anger, therage building in his tone momentarily bringing you to your senses. How could you be so easily swayed, your hand tightened around his, too feeble yet to dislodge it. Quick hushing noises follow suit, melodious voice appeasing you like one would a house cat.

You laid back still, growing more and more confused by the second. The words soothed yet the implications were not meant to do so. A cold hand replaced the feel of leather around your throat, startling you at the sudden feel of flesh.

He pursued the song still, humming its captivating tune, singing low at times and only for your ears – careful that his talent would not extend to any outsiders. It was meant for you, you both and no one else.

There was no escaping the heavy feeling settling in your limbs, the haziness that came clouding your mind.

“You understand now, why you cannot leave...”

* * *

Sleep slowly slides off you, its sole helper the sun shining through into the small room. Memories of this morning’s event come flooding in and you quickly sit up, now alert. Silence reigns in the still room, you take a second to wipe your mouth, painfully aware of the dried drool at its corners.

In doing so, a glimmer catches your eye and you look down onto your lap. Atop your blood red gown lays your gloves, the previously missing one lying askew on top of the other. But the sight that made you most pause was your bracelet, locket shut and visibly not broken, spread over the pair of gloves.

Only the tiny bare gold cross usually slung through it was missing. But you found that detail far less distressing compared to the implication behind it lying across your lap.

Your heart lurches in panic. The memories from the first flush of morning do not seem as dream-like any longer. Those items had clearly been in Drystan’s possession last night, they should have never found their way back to you.

That man was no Drystan and he certainly was no _ghost_.

* * *

You’d lie if you described your venture toward the _auberge 6_ as stress-free, you’d catch yourself fiddling with your chain through the material of your purse, chancing suspicious looks around as you walked – what if it was all a trap? He had been the one to give you the name and address after all.

It wasn’t as it turned out. You took on your best authoritative tone at the reception and thanked Lady Luck to find a young boy easily intimidated by your full gown behind the desk. He led you quickly through the establishment and to Drystan’s rented room.

He went away as easily as he came, leaving with you the key and a stuttered farewell.

The hallway reeked something awful, the stench – you dearly hoped – not emanating from the room you sought to enter. It was reasonably clean, you supposed, you’d grown accustomed to the cluttered mess of ropes and spare materials from backstage.

Never mind the boy or the state of the building, you told yourself as you slid the key into the lock. As you did so, you shook yourself aware and promptly took it out, knocking first. The last thing you wanted to do was frighten a man known to keep weapons on his person.

No answer. You alternated between knocking and calling his name for a minute before unlocking the heavy wooden door. It creaked open slowly, painfully so.

The sun shone through the room by a window opposite the entrance, the thin curtains dangling from the latter doing nothing to keep the natural light out. You looked around as it gave way, spying the large undone bed, the chamber pot peeking from behind the covers, clothes and other possessions thrown about.

It seemed as if a big great storm had raged in and dissipated all on its own. You pushed your luck and opened the door fully, finally stepping in.

And there he was… a lifeless thing. Your view of death had admittedly been quite influenced by reading penny dreadfuls all throughout your childhood. Those afternoons spent pouring over those macabre stories of headless riders and demon barbers with your sister had done nothing but romanticize the notion.

That is why, upon seeing Drystan’s hanged corpse, only one thing went through your mind.

Huh, you’d have expected him to be softly swinging, perhaps still be kicking and fighting the tightening noose with all his might. The man, full of fire and crazed intent, was not supposed to remain silent and immobile when he hung from a rope! It felt wrong. It felt like you’d been wronged somehow. But there was no author or publisher to curse for the meager description and overall lack of care in the material. There was only you and a corpse.

A dangling corpse.

He was hung by a bright red rope, jaw stuck wide open and eyes rendered milky by death. His face was slightly turned away, his hair long enough to hide a fair bit of it. Deep raw marks ran over his cheeks and what little could be seen of his neck. He wasn’t in his nightclothes, you noticed, but the same clothes you’d seen him in last and – funnily enough – one of his shoes had slipped from his foot, leaving it lying prone in the filth his body had released overnight.

Was it strange, you wondered, that you didn’t weep for him? You stepped into the room and closed the door behind you, careful to keep the key with you. You prowled around the room, unsure of what you were looking for. You went over the upturned room, the mattress had slipped to the right, many of his belongings had been scattered all over.

You advanced towards the corpse, careful not to sully your heels or dragging dress in his excrement and simply looked at him. Dead but not so gone.

You began to think of the reason behind his suicide. He’d found you after all, surely he would be very pleased with himself. The room was a mess, perhaps he’d lost something of valor?

Another possible cause rang through your mind but it hardly made much sense. Drystan lacked the hypnotizing voice, the stature and the grace of the man from last night – it was more than obvious that he was no admirer of yours either.

If the ‘ghost’ was a man, made of flesh and blood and he had spoken the truth this morning with his clod, strong hand around your throat – then the mystery was solved.

Oh, there it is... now comes the blow!

A sudden kick inside your guts folded you in half. Your stomach fruitlessly attempted to empty itself, bemoaning its lack of contents. Some sick did spurt out of your lips but the spittle was thin and runny. It ended its course early on your chin. The burn in your throat made you cough out the remaining sick and by extension, caused bitter tears to spring out of your eyes.

You stumbled out of the room, clutching at your mouth. You rummaged for a handkerchief, plastering it to your mouth.

The boy tried to stop you in your tracks, you only shove the key into his hands. He vainly calls for you but you’re turning the corner by the time he’s at the door, calling out to the lady in red.

When you reach home, you’re pleasantly surprised not to have lost anything or gave the proper fee to the driver considering your worsening case of hysteria. The second you cross the threshold of the house however, a shrill voice greets you.

Madame Caron rounds on you, nose red from her passing illness, her eyes glow with something wicked. “Here she is! _La petite garce du troisème étage 7_.”

“Madame!” You blurt out, cheeks coloring, “How dare you!”

“Do not play coy,” Her son, forever stuck at her side raised his voice to be heard over you two, “Two men in one night, ready to bring down this door!”

“Oh, I was shocked! Shaken down to my foundation when I realized!” She ranted, “I couldn’t believe my eyes! I have told each and everyone of you that I do not run a whorehouse! I house you, I feed you and men from all over Paris come for your bed!”

Your cries of indignation are thwarted by the man’s rebuttal, “This will cost you. I’ve had enough of loose women living under this roof.”

“I never--! I don’t know what you mean!”

“Of course.” She scoffed, “The night you’re out of there, suddenly men become an issue?”

“Ask the others from my floor, I never brought any strangers into my room. I would never!”

The son, whose name you could not bother to remember at this time, asked, “Are you saying these men came looking for nothing? That they lied?”

“I don’t know who those men are,” You lied, quite convincingly you thought. The continuous flow of emotions since last night, from the assault, to the songs to the _murder_ did nothing to help your frayed nerves but you wouldn’t cry for this.

“One called himself Tristan,” He seethed, “English, he only spoke. He said he needed inside your room.” Your dubious look brought a bizarre pink to his cheeks, “I knew what he meant, the only English in here is you.”

So he _had_ found your accommodation in the end, in between the incident in the place behind the opera and his untimely death. The thought alone sickened you.

Caron continued in his stead, “The other one was some boy from the _quartier_ ,” Her sneer only grew. “You pick them young, don’t you?”

A child had come looking for you? To create a commotion?

To the very end, even beyond the grave, that man had been a thorn in your side… But to hire someone – a child! – off the street to make a ruckus?

This was unbelievably low of him.

“Madame, I am not a prostitute.” You held your ground despite being unable to hide your distress. “I do not know any… Tristan and certainly no one from this borough. I have never brought anyone into my room, man or boy, this I swear on my life.”

Stern silence was your only answer, the youth took his eyes off you and posed a hand onto his mother’s shoulder, “ _Maman..._ ” Caron sniffed into her scarf and patted his hand.

“You’ve paid your rent properly, that I will not lie about.” She stated, “But I will not allow this kind of behavior under my roof.”

It seems like a mediocre Gothic trope, the way their mouths move one after the other while your mind centers on the sound clapping of horseshoes against cobblestone from outside, your heart adopting the beat of the ticking clock in the corner of the entrance, your eyes soon lost in the distance, far above their heads. Dread is the devil weighing down on your shoulders, racking its claws where the soft cold touch of the _murderer_ once tenderly drew lines over your neck and cheek. It whispers treacherous things, moaning into your ears of cold skin and alabaster masks.

You await the killing blow, the sensation of a short, sharp shock. Yet it never comes. All thanks to your very much provoked loss of consciousness.

* * *

The logical thing to do would be the clear opposite of what you’re thinking of doing. A wiser woman would turn to Gare du Nord station this instant and make arrangements for immediate transportation to Le Havre. In less than two days you’d be with your sister and niece.

Alas, for lack of better word, you were flat broke.

As long as the costume for Monsieur le Baron de Clémartin was not finished, your designing bonus was not handed over and your weekly wages not paid – you were stuck in this damned city. And more precisely, stuck in the opera house.

Monsieur Lefèvre is joyous at the idea for some ungodly reason, you do assume it’s about having another live-in seamstress close at hand that make him so amiable to the idea. Madame Giry surely must have had a hand playing into this and she doesn’t deny nor admit to it but then again she doesn’t acknowledge this fact at all.

Instead, she’s more interested in the circumstances behind the sudden change in your living situation. When you’ve moved and washed your face, she comes to inspect your room, sending a critical look to one girl’s undone bed. Her work as both dance tutor and choreographer has prepared her well to reprimand people, especially women. Her expression once her eyes land on you though, turns softer.

“Could we talk about this… man?” She asks you, and silent, you nod. “I believe the matter hasn’t fixed itself?”

Ah! You almost laugh hysterically in her face but instead school your features to respond, “It’s been… taken care of, Madame. You have no need to worry about any of this happening again.”

“Oh, do stop.” A fond smile dispels all worries you’d annoyed her, “My name is Eugénie, you may call me so.” She says, the tiniest of laugh escaping her. You can’t quite fake a laugh, not after this morning’s events but you manage to force out a soft chuckle that sounds almost genuine.

“Eugénie it is,” You agree and aid her in pronouncing your own when she struggles with the pronunciation. Before you know it, she has taken your hands in hers. She insists on reassuring you once more and you can safely say to yourself you have found a friend in her.

“Stay safe, my dear.” She says as a means of farewell.

Once she is gone, you sit heavily down on your bed, looking around to scrutiny your trunk and the arrangement of the room, inspecting it for any entryway other than the single obvious door. It won’t be long now, until he comes back for you.

* * *

Three days after you move in, a new curious character makes himself known.

Walking towards your post through the winding corridors and staircases, you happen to stumble upon Monsieur Lefèvre, briefly huffing to himself about some newcomer before walking back to his office, barely offering a gruff nod towards you as he did so. He leaves in his tracks a man, his back turned to you.

From this point of view, you can still see the bright red of the Astrakhan cap posed on a full head of hair. Eyes roving down the stranger’s back, a sash of the same color is tied around his waist, stylishly falling onto the man’s hip. He turns, a precise and tight move of his neck that reveals eyes of a deep green color – eyes like those of a cat, you catch yourself thinking.

Sheepishly you greet him with a slight nod and he returns the gesture, a smile gracing his generous lips, “Mademoiselle.”

“Monsieur.”

Without further ado, he walks away, deftly producing a notebook from his pocket. As he goes, you can’t help but stare at his back. This man had sent monsieur Lefèvre away _in his own theater_ and was now simply roaming the halls.

His obvious foreignness did nothing to abate your curiosity either, he was finely dressed, only a soft, washed-out accent in the single word he’d spoken and bore a destabilizing grace in his movements despite his moderate height.

Your throat seized, a very similar grace.

You come across the man several more times during the next few days, he sticks out like a sore thumb. His ebony skin is so ever pronounced among the sea of powdered white and pink of both staff and guests alike. His clothes, while European, are often peppered with bright colors and symbols from his country of origin.

He has offered no name for himself and so whenever you two meet, may it be with your arms full with costumes dredging up and down stairs and hallways or in your free time, you can only call him le Persan. You have conversed once or twice, mainly greetings and apologies if the sub-level staircases impede either of you to progress without falling into one another.

In one of those occasions, where you’d closed the workshop and were on your way to your room, le Persan just happened to descend down the stairs. The flame inside his lantern burns bright, illuminating the way and his face. He offers you his familiar private smile and you greet him, offering the usual niceties.

This time, the conversation does not stop there, “Mademoiselle, I was not expecting to see you this late.”

“Work makes husks of us all,” You lightly joked, “I simply didn’t keep track of time.”

He chuckled before his features straightened out. “You’re quite right… If you have a bit of time to spare me, could I possibly have a look inside this room?”

“My apologies,” You said, ready as automaton, “I have myself extended my time here, if I were to be found--”

“Do not worry,” He spoke in a rich voice that made you question if you should truly be alone with a man in such darkness. “The blame will fall on me, I am… far more suspicious than you are here.”

“Monsieur,” You uttered, ready to dispel any of these worries, “Your race would never come into play in this matter!” You were tempted to tell him that the both of you were in the same boat but how could it ever compare? His origins were blatant, unapologetic, shameless. He bore them with glaring pride.

He did give a far more genuine smile at this, “I thank you, truly I do.” His eyes slid over to the door behind you. You reasoned that if monsieur Lefèvre had wished to keep him out of any rooms, he’d surely would have given more directives to his employees.

You turned the key into the lock, “Make sure to keep that lantern closed, one flicker and we’re doomed.”

He walked in after you, marching deep into the workshop, silently taking it in. A faint light from the outside lampposts drifted from the high, narrow windows. The light of both your lights shone over fabric and dead machines, as usual pins were littered all over, scraps of fabric lost in the mess.

“Monsieur, I had been wondering… What is it that you do, precisely?”

“I beg your pardon?” You hope it isn’t glibness you hear in his voice.

“You’re always wandering the halls,” You justify, “I’m sorry, I was only curious.”

He only shakes his head, an easy smile on his face. “That’s quite alright. I will answer you if you answer my question first. What do you think?”

“I don’t suppose I get to ask first?”

His eyes were filled with mirth. “Now, tell me… Have you seen the phantom haunting this opera house?”

Where once harmless annoyance would have let you roll your eyes and dismiss any more of this story, the memories from days ago made you shiver in fear. You’d tried to fight the voice and you’d failed, your cowardice had even cost the life of a man – no matter how crooked and mad that dog was. You’d yet to hear the devilish song and you strove to keep it this way, always staying with someone else, walking alone only in the light of day.

Your leaving so late had truly been a simple lack of thought, this damned costume would not be finished until tomorrow. Only then would you deliver it and get paid and three days from now, you would be paid for the week and get the bonus. You had to run yourself thin to escape this voice, these hands.

“Only gossip,” You brush it off. “The ballerinas love to spread rumors about this ghost.”

“Only rumors,” He repeats, his light shining over the confines of the room. “Your accent, it is English, correct?” Le Persan nods to himself when you talk of London, the borough where you were born and brought up in. “To be truthful, I had not expected these many Britons in Paris.”

“We aren’t many,” You remembered, with an aching fondness, the large number of Spaniards and Italians who lived in the Latin quarter. They always brought over the most beautiful music, their language even rang so handsomely in the air. “Perhaps a handful, but truly not many.”

“In such a small diaspora, I would suspect news travel fast.”

“Not particularly,” You replied, unsure of the remark. You knew a couple Londoners but you hated to engage with them, you never knew what men or women could truly be friends or foes with the looming threat of your brother-in-law.

“I heard shocking news,” He continues, electing not to acknowledge your last answer. “A man, Briton just as you are, was found hanged in his rented room. The boy in charge of manning the desk has said he talked a noblewoman dressed in red. Later he saw her running out of the room, presumably after discovering the corpse.”

A chill ran through you, he cast you an inquisitive look. He’s got the devil’s eyes, the other seamstresses had spat this morning. You suddenly understood how such a calculating, intense glare could be seen as such. If you hadn’t been petrified by fear for another reason, you’d surely have blamed those piercing eyes.

You cleared your throat, looking away. “A terrible incident...” You thought of Drystan, hanging limply from the rafters, his immobile corpse. When you looked back, you could see the deep marks dug in his skin, from his chin to his neck, his open clouded eyes, gaping pink mouth – the signs of a man who had fought until his last breath. Centering yourself, you changed the subject. “You didn’t answer my question though.”

“I am only exploring, that is all.” You frowned at the meager answer. “I have lived on Rivoli for some time and hardly had the chance to visit this architectural wonder, it is fascinating, don’t you think so?”

If it weren’t for the cavernous basements and the murderous man walking in the walls. “Quite so.” Many questions burned inside of you, mainly those questioning his power over Monsieur Lefèvre – even if the man lived on Rue de Rivoli, he would not have the coin to force the director’s hand.

And how did he know about the murder? He exclusively knew of it as a suicide but what kind of strange man went around investigating suicides? Who could he be?

“If that is all, my day starts quite early tomorrow.” You toed on the line of impropriety staying alone with him so late, you tried to justify yourself. You didn’t have a hand in Drystan’s murder, you were blameless – or so you tried to convince yourself. You had no reason to feel anything but fear, no guilt needed here. None at all.

“Of course,” He put away the small notebook back in his pocket, gold rings glinting at his fingers. He clipped a pen to his breast pocket before picking up his lantern.

He bid you goodnight, you returned the niceties and fled as quickly as you could, cursing the time wasted on this fruitless conversation. You’d only learned one thing, le Persan had figured you out and suspected you of something and, as improbable as it seemed, knew of the phantom’s actions or at least the surface of those.

You climb to the upstairs, traversing the maze-like hallways of the third floor above ground. You reach the stagehand quarters, greeting the few stragglers that still haunt the corridors despite the late hour. Throughout it all, you cannot keep your mind off the conversation, the game you had played with each other. He knew you knew something, you knew he knew something. By God, who were these men?

Finally, you arrive to your shared room and close the door behind you, mindful of the candle’s glow. The seamstresses with whom you share the room with are both in bed, one passing a needle through fabric stretched by a ring hoop, she acknowledges you with a quiet greeting. The other is combing through her hair, her eyes are stuck to a book lying on her lap.

The routine is quick and simple, undress and change into proper attire. Your fingers twitch after such rigorous hours spent doing the same motion over and over again. They itch where you’ve pricked yourself, skin roughened by the years of work. Your mother’s hands had been worked to the bone after years of solid work with machinery. Burn marks had always littered her skin as far as you could remember, her nails had always been cut short down to the skin. You’d thought her to be strong, resilient. So unlike your own.

Yet she’d forever held onto her past life as middle class, she never failed to wear her rouge, take care of her nails and hair. She told you tales of her family’s house in the country, her summers spent on the beach. Those stories, you’d always taken as a finite thing, something to be left in the past. You suppose your sister had never quite let go of the image.

Writing her to warn her about your arrival had been shot down quickly; you’d no way of paying the fee for quick postage and no clue if the contents of this letter would remain private.

Having enough of this torture, you blow out your candle, bidding goodnight to the other women. Sleep doesn’t come quickly, hampered by the thoughts of the curious Persian and murderous admirer swimming through your mind.

* * *

The devil is there again, you can feel your shoulders collapsing under the weight, your chest sinking into the ground. There are no sounds, nothing to focus on. Your breath, though fast and short is silent. The mass grows in weight the more you will your body to react, to move.

Its tail wraps around your neck, slithers into your armpit. Its claws rack into your hair, bloody lines forming where the skin breaks.

Blood flows down onto your forehead, dripping down into your eyes, joining the mess of tears and snot on your face. No screams come out, no cries, no plea for the torture to come to an end. Your throat constricts on nothing, the unyielding grip of the tail slowly choking you.

A dull throb beats inside your skull, drawing your thoughts to a close. You stop gasping for air, no longer able to damn your own corpse-like stillness. You can taste the ground underneath on your gums, your nose crushed by the added weight resting on your skull.

Steadily, the beat slows down, the light around you growing dimmer and dimmer as everything starts losing its meaning.

The devil uncoils its tail, suddenly letting go. The sudden surge of air in your lungs brings relief but does not help the burn on your skin. The appendage drags along your skin as it retracts, leaving hot welts where it’d once been.

Freed at last, the first breath of air you take is seconded by a scream.

You jostle awake, lying atop your covers, limbs stretched out like a broken doll. You don’t scream but make a ruckus stumbling out of bed, pushing the frame loudly against the wall in your haste. Consequently, the nightstand is knocked to the ground, its contents pouring over.

You reach for your head, tracing with your fingers the path the claws had taken. There’s no pain, no blood and no tears either. You stay standing there, staring at the bed for far too long, only turning to seek out the other women but meet only silence.

You felt sick, it had been a dream – a nightmare. Nothing more.

With a shaking hand, you light a candle, holding it out towards the womanly shapes under the covers. They’re deathly silent but are breathing – it’s hard distinguishing their chests heaving up and down with only this small light. But they’re alive, slumbering away as if you hadn’t just about shoved an entire bed against a wall like some savage banshee. With great care, you step towards the closest sleeping girl, hesitating for only a second before posing your hand on her shoulder, softly shaking her shoulder in an effort to wake her.

She doesn’t even grunt or moan in dismay at the attempted rude awakening. She stays put, no visible motions apart from her steady breathing, the expected fall and rise of her chest.

He’d drugged her, your heart sank low, and judging by the look of the other girl he had done the same to her too.

There was no reason to wonder how when the why mattered most. The answer wasn’t staring you right in the face. You wondered why he hadn’t bothered to stay to see you wake, he had to be the cause of your nightmare.

You marched out of the room, cursing the delicate thrill that yet still lived inside of you – to hear his musical voice, to feel his tantalizing touch.

The hallways are cold, deadly silent but they soon gain a voice. The melody is sweet yet mournful, the somber tone in the song keeps you on your toes although you assume it is not meant to do so. This should be a joyous tune, shouldn’t he be happy that _you can’_ _t_ _leave_? – as far as he’s aware.

You think back to the Welshman who must have been thrown in a mass grave by now. The image of his corpse is fresh in your mind, the putrid stench of his filth, the sudden lurch of your guts.

Softly, you ask the darkness, “Why would you… Why?”

The song ends immediately, a rhyme noticeably cut for him to speak. You wait for him to do so, your hold on the chamber stick faltering on its own when a breathless laugh echoes in the hall.

“It has started!” The laugh rings true and loud, “Truth has started – a fine case, indeed.”

This burst of energy is striking, from song to cheers – without warning his voice had risen to an ear-shattering volume.

The light of your candle shakes as you grip shifts from lax to tight, alternating in between the two. The flame cast flickering shadows upon the walls, so much so that you scare yourself multiple times thinking he is inching closer towards you.

The song starts again, growing fainter by the second. Dread tears at you, crushing your insides with its inescapable paws to spur you into pursuing it – you don’t think you could survive if you didn’t hear it to the end. A hole had formed inside your throat then, you didn't dare speak and simply advanced through the cold, following the voice as it led you further into the bowels of the opera house.

The melody became clearer, the meaning behind each words surer. You felt the hunger growing, pulsing like a disease in the confines of your chest. His voice was a torment, a dream you could not wake up from. It had possibly brought death yes, but truly hadn’t he helped you? What proof did you truly have – how could you accuse someone in possession of such an angelic voice?

The music grew fainter the longer you went on ahead, desperation tore at you, clawed into you. Breaking into a run was unreasonable, it would make too much noise, it would make hearing him impossible. You couldn’t have his voice taken away this way.

“Please,” You spoke, shaken to your core. You felt a gnawing sadness pulsed in rhythm to your heartbeat. “Please, don’t leave me!” Your lips are twisted in an abominable shape, you can feel your nose scrunched up as well in your sorrow.

The voice doesn’t relent still, finally growing clearer when you round a corner. A shadow moves in the dark, the only sign it happened being the flutter of a cape. The music never stops but adopts a slower beat you firstly mistake for the end. You progress deeper into the darkness, staring as the light of your candle illuminates the Phantom of the opera before you.

You will your hand to rise, to shine light upon the man. The stark whiteness of the half-mask among the darkness enveloping him creates an intense contrast. If you hadn’t yet know he was a man, you’d have been stuck contemplating the gloom surrounding him despite the exquisite voice.

His hand comes to your wrist, grasping it in a strong grip. His lips are captivating, moving along the rhythm of the song. With a nudge, he tilts your chin upwards and your eyes meet. They’re so _strange_ , is your first thought – they’re brown yet you make out that one is lighter than the other. There’s this golden tint swimming about in his irises. His thumb traces a line along your jaw, the tip of his finger teasing your bottom lip. You’re ready to lean in, share a kiss with him when he stops singing, instead turning to the wrist he is clutching in his hand.

You’re still holding the chamber stick despite the powerful clasp around your wrist. In a suspenseful moment when you can feel your heart beat loudly inside your chest, he leans in and a deliberate nonchalance blows on the flame, plunging you into darkness.

He leads you forward, deeper into the theater. At points, he halts this wild march into the dark but you don’t dare speak. You don’t think you could. It all feels like a dream, you can barely feel his clasp around your wrist or the occasional caresses he runs along your arm.

Feeling only comes back to you when his music resonates once more, fast-paced and dramatic. Only then can you feel the cold piercing through the material of your nightshirt, your socks. Each brush of his cape hits like an intimate sensual touch you cannot shake off. All at once, you wake up in his arms, your hands trapped between your chests.

A weight collects in your limbs, making you almost lifeless in his embrace. The song floated around you both, putting you into a trance. The warm feeling inside your chest grew to your every limb. You didn’t protest when your chin was tilted upwards, caught up in these intoxicating sensations.

The blissful music ends upon your lips, his own pressing gently against yours.

Strong arms bring you further into his lap, he frees one of his hands to caress your thigh through the shirt. This is hardly your first kiss yet this one is special, tremendous. Never have you felt such passion behind a kiss, so much tension hiding away. It takes your breath away, makes your heart flutter wildly in its cage.

Fingers slide along your throat, delicately undoing your high collar, unbuttoning it with a deliberate slowness. Praises tumble form his lips, strangely uncoordinated compared to the well though-out and structured acclaim you’ve grown treacherously fond of. You feel pride that should be much better suited for a whore consume you, so pleased you are with such an overturn.

The collar opens under prying fingers, the desire pressing down low in your stomach making your breath come short and fast. Soon the cold touch caress the top of your breasts exposed to the cavernous cold, you reel under the ministrations, fingers tight in the fabric of his shirt.

Little whines and whimpers fight their way out of your throat, far from appeased by the despicable coldness racking against your body from head to toe. You savor his obvious craving expressed through every word, every touch. You revel in it but an awful sentiment upsets your core, in the midst of mindless desire, you’re taken by the daze surrounding you.

The cold touches awakening such a burning response grow dull, your skin numb under the delightful contact where your flesh meets his.

Soft kisses descend upon your neck, creating a trail unto your collarbones. Even fading, the thrill of indecency and arousal does not abandon you, clinging to you as a second skin. Goosebumps decorate your skin and a lustful moan resounds from your mouth when a hand teases your puckered nipples through your nightshirt.

A sudden, sharp hurt tears you from your stupor. The pain is only exacerbated when he pulls away, leaving only his hot breath to bathe the bite. Cradled so close to him, it’s easy for his hand to slide underneath your nightclothes, his hand meeting your bare skin.

Yet it feels like a light pat, a soft caress with your body growing weak under his lips and seeking hands. You feel yourself being lowered down on soft cushions, hungry lips seeking out your neck once more. The cold surface of his mask against your sensitive skin draws shivers from you.

Your lips move in a semblance of an inquiry, only murmurs coming out. It seemed to make sense earlier, what you wanted to ask.

Hands travel down your chest, playing with your pebbled nipples, running cold digits against your exposed skin. A melodious laugh, the stuff of angels, echoes into the room and he says, voice strong and perfect, “Erik, _my Eurydice_.”

* * *

Pain radiated through your entire being, stretching from your head to your toes in a torrent of fire. It takes less effort to regain consciousness due to to every part of your body aching. Blearily, you open your eyes to take in your surroundings, bringing your hand to cradle your head. Your mouth is dry and an awful bitter taste lingers on the tongue, it is as if you had bit into a sour fruit and its juices still coats your every teeth.

The room’s dark, a single light shining through the canopy’ bed’s curtains. You only spot the shape of the lantern from beyond.

Sitting up, you notice at once the revealing open collar of your shirt and swiftly button it close. Violent pain blooms across your chest then, the cotton catching onto the raised skin of your chest and neck. The litany of bruises and bites running down along, on and below your breasts sicken you. Those are the vestiges of the Phantom’s touches remaining along your skin, purpling and hurting.

Deceptively enough, once you try to soothe those with your touch through the cloth, vulgar pleasure outshining the pain – no... mingling with it.

Ridding yourself of these thoughts given the situation at hand, you part the curtains around the canopy bed, batting away any ~~arousal~~ dread pooling into your stomach. You know who brought you here, it’s only a matter of finding out _where_. The gap you create with your hands is large enough for you to peek through but the sole lantern makes it impossible to discern the surroundings.

Halting your exit is also the raised wooden edge of the bed, the mattress appears sunken in just so. It’s with a heavy heart that upon closer inspection you understand the peculiar corners both at the foot and head of the bed are not slanted but tapered, giving the large bed the appearance of a massive coffin.

That is then that you decide your terrorized little heart will have to wait for a better instance to fully panic and focus once more on the opening that you made in between the curtains, stepping out into the cold air. You almost slipped and fell down, not expecting the dais leading down to the light. Gently, you lifted the lantern off the low table, knocking a book over as you did so. The thud echoed loudly and grew more distant by the second, there was no doubting that wherever you were, it was as frigid as the inside of an icebox and it was enormous. It reminded you of the Catholic chapel buried deep down into the third sub-level of the opera, it always felt off going down there yet it held a familiar feeling of threatening calm – one that could be broken at any moment if one chose to cross the threshold.

You steered away from the low table, avoiding to step on the book you’d left on the floor. With the soft glow, you spotted a large bookshelf that could have easily reached the ceiling of any normal home. In this case, the smooth wall it was put up against ended some meters above the top of it. The ceiling, while it remained dark for your light was too low to reveal its entirety, was raised high far above you. It was a vaulted, arched ceiling and gave here the appearance of grandeur. You’d often joked the narrow pathways in the basements were cavernous in nature but this… The image of the small chapel came to mind once more, the arches overhead bore very similar decorations, you didn’t doubt for an instant you were still in the theater.

You kept walking around, intrigued when you stepped on paper sheets. They were thrown about on the floor, lined with staves filled with notes and lyrics. Many were torn or balled up, obvious rejects.

You side-stepped them as best as you could, coming upon the clear origin of the sheets. A lone stand sat in front of a violin, the smell of resin made itself known in the stale air when you leaned down to inspect it. It was a beautiful instrument but the bow sat discarded some ways away, you shuddered to think what bout of frustration or scuffle could have caused such carelessness.

Walking about yields to no further discovery except double doors that once opened lead to yet more darkness. Your flame wavered as you crossed the threshold, panic flared inside of you.

The candle was small, it had to have been burning for some time already. Taking deep, slow breaths you progress through the lair, your heart flying at the prospect of ending in completely alone in the dark.

You hasten to get a hold of the new room, shining your weakening light on what you first think is a piano. The organ is grand, enormous, its pipes reaching high above yet unable to scrape the high ceiling. Dozens of candlesticks surround the instrument, you’re tempted to light one of them and reach to do so but the candles are firmly stuck to the brass, wax having long melted in one thick mass.

Defeated, you walk away from it, seeking a way out with your constantly diminishing candle. You cannot help the shiver that courses along your skin, the hitch in your breath as you nightshirt slides along your abused nipples in your hurried chase.

His powerful voice rings true inside your mind, _Erik, my Eurydice_ , your skin rippling from the memory alone. More than once do you have to snap yourself back to the world around you. You’re growing to despise the power he exercises so freely over you, you’re long past seduction, you’ve already fallen. You love and hate the feelings he awakes inside of you, with only one verse, one command.

Snapping out of your daydream, you see a tiny light shining in the distance, behind another set of doors. It hadn’t been there before, you decide. You would have noticed, at least… you should have. Is he here in the darkness then? You hadn’t heard a match being struck, let alone Erik’s retreating footsteps.

“Show yourself.” You weakly say, your voice coarse from disuse and the dryness in your throat. Ashamed of your moment of weakness, you insist, “Why have you brought me here?”

This time you hear it, his voice, hard as the crack of a whip, “I merely led, you are the one who followed.” He spoke from behind you, you turn to face the pitch blackness. Hands trembling, glancing about to spot him, you take a step backwards in hopes of avoiding him.

The harsh whistle of fire igniting makes you spin back to find a row of candles lit, revealing with their lights a modest salon with seats turned to face a small bookshelf. An exotic carpet lies spread onto the floor, the motifs and colors glaring Oriental. You think of le Persan yet as much as you look around, there is no trace of him… or Erik.

Your heart slams inside your chest and he laughs, this time the throaty sound coming from your right, where the imposing organ rests against the wall. As soon as you glance in that direction, doors bang against the wall, ripping a yelp from your throat. Another row of candles is lit on the outside of the house. This time, light shines over a body of water and a boat ashore, its tail floating in the still water.

You remember the slow rocking of the boat, the unearthly voice of the man standing above you. You couldn’t remember how long it had been and yet, you didn’t doubt you were under the opera house. Cautiously you approached the exit, freedom was glaring you in the face. You doubted still you could navigate the black waters stretching beyond the shore.

“No,” You protested, grip tightening around the handle of the lantern even as your breath caught inside your throat, your pulse sped. “No, you lured me. You drugged them.” You thought back of their still, doll-like faces, the quiet quasi non-existent rises and falls of their chests… And before that… You could smell the filth, see those clouded eyes, the limp slump of his shoulders, the strain of his neck. “You killed Drystan!”

“Scum.” His tone dripped with disgust.

A violent burst of light flared near the organ. Music blared from the massive instrument, tearing a frightened scream from you when you turned to face it. And there he stood, among the flaming candles, his hands at his sides as the keys pressed down themselves.

“A dog grovelling for his life when he had so easily attempted to take yours.” Anger fuels his words, the bite behind them intensifying, “One that is mine to claim.”

At last the veil of darkness had dissipated. You looked upon him, the half mask covering the right side of his face, the crisp, clean suit he wore was regal, tailored to fit him perfectly. You remembered the brush and weight of his cape on your shoulders last night, the rough feel of leather gloves along your collarbones from last week and the delicious pressure those hands had put around your neck.

At last the organ falls silent and you shake all thoughts of him out of your head, this was not right – curse him and his spellbinding voice, his mesmerizing hands. “You drugged _me_! You-- You--” You thought of the hands, the lips, the teeth against your skin claiming and marking until there was no inch left unscathed, no inch free for another to own.

He stepped away from the gargantuan instrument, the soles of his oiled leather shoes made no noise against the ground. He had been watching you the, since the very beginning. “I touched you, I kissed you.” He hummed, the mere hint at a song subduing you. “And you responded in kind.”

_Your hands grappled at his front, hungry for more of his skin against yours, needing to feel him pressed against your breasts. You knew that is what you needed and then, after you’d felt him worshiping you, then it would be over, then you could--_

“You are no _ingénue_ , you are Carmen,” He sang, growing closer while you stayed rooted to the spot. You had no strength left to run but your anger was not sated yet. “A thing of beauty… and of spirit.”

No, no. You resolved, this couldn't happen again. Last night had been an error, a lapse in judgment you would not repeat again. As he was near, you dropped the lantern at your feet, the metal loudly rattling and glass shattering upon impact. The song ended, his muscles locking, thrown off by the distraction. Despite the cold, you felt sweat collecting on your brow, atop your lip and in one breath, you stepped up to him and ripped the mask from his disguising.

And for a moment, all was silence.

You felt your heart sink into your stomach, saw his caricature of a face tear into an animalistic grimace.

He charged, and you cried out as he wrestled your arm behind you. He jerked it towards him and the pain became excruciating. With a tempestuous, awesome roar, he threw you to the ground, uncaring how hard you fell down. He stepped over you, recognizing that you were frozen in place from the shock. The curses began in a blind rage and never halted; the insults reigned and filled the entire space. You felt your breath shorten, diverting your gaze away from his face. You feared that if you were to look upon him again, you would not be able to hold your scream this time.

“Did this face not satisfy you when it made you the fallen one you longed to become!?” He snarled like a wild animal, his fists dropping from his face to his sides. You didn’t want to defend yourself, you bore the marks of your shame along your entire chest and had enjoyed it, lavished in it – even now. Yet, you couldn’t help the denial pouring out of your mouth, the supplication, the thousands of no’s.

Only then was there an end to his wild tirade, a growl erupted from the back of his throat. “If you wish to make yourself a Miranda,” He hissed like a snake, “then I be your Caliban.” His eyes conveyed nothing but hatred, his sonorous voice now hampered by the rage projected through it. So close you two were, you could easily see the imperfections his face abhorred and the cracks and raised skin on the left side of his face. How had you missed it before – oh but you knew already, didn’t you?

Understanding the meaning behind your horrified silence, he knelt by your side and forced your hand onto his face, “Look upon me! Face it! Feel it!” Every inch of the disfigurement crawled beneath your palm, you felt the hard overflow of tissue on the tip of your fingers, dips into the skin leading to misshapen bone and muscle. You had not only ripped the mask off his face but had also revealed the wild wisps of dark hair that scarcely covered his head. The exposed skull stole your attention though, it stood out so evidently away from the pink tissues that framed it and yet so little from the wan skin of his face.

Your thumb grazed against his nose, the bizarre nostril rather, that rose and feel with every quick pained breath he took. It was collapsed, retreated into his face, the distortion looked like it was the cause for the warped look of his upper lip, giving his mouth a bloated, split appearance.

Those lips had kissed you, scarred and imprinted your skin. And you had let him do so, encouraged him.

You begged yourself to surrender, for your eyes to roll back in shock, for the forgiving darkness creeping in the back of your mind to take you away. Sobbing growing in intensity, your hand perpetually convulsed and shook in rhythm with your all-consuming disgust, stuck between his own hand and face. The tears finally came and unable to witness more you collapsed on yourself, drained. Puerile cries flowed out of you, pitiful and weak.

You cried noisily into your shoulder, desperately attempting to free your hand from his clasp. It never went lax despite your struggles instead only his quick breaths and your meek cries filled the air.

Slowly, your hand was guided away from his face but Erik kept it in his possession still, cradling it between his hands. “Oh, my love…” Once more his mood fluctuated down to sorrowful. He tugged your hand to his chest, over his heart. You felt it beat against your palm, hard and fast. He crawled on his knees towards your face as his hands caressed the length of your arm. “Can’t you feel it... How you hurt me so?”

You shook your head, pleading away to deaf ears. Each of his words were filled to the brim with sadness, he sounded like he was on the brink of tears. Stupidly you turned to face him, pointedly looking away from his face.

“Please,” You sobbed, wiping away your face with your nightshirt’s sleeve. “Please… Erik, please.”

“Our love's sweet tremors,” He softly sang, drawing himself closer to you. “Those eyes…” His voice seemed to caress your cheek, its power cascading along your neck, “...that pierce the heart.”

A strong arm encircled your waist, the cold of his skin piercing any layer of clothing. You sniffed still, the song meant for joy shifted to a darker tone – “Relish in this life for the pleasures of love are swift and fleeting. Love’s bliss is a flower that blooms and dies then disappears forever...”

Willingly, you gathered your legs underneath you before leaning into his chest, feeling the strength hidden behind the flesh, his chest rising and falling in time with the song. “Let us fervently share into this ardent pleasure... this keen voice compels you to succumb.”

The cold planes of his hands rove across your back, pulling memories of the night spent together where moans replaced words and lust overran reason. A note stopped in his throat, you raise your head to nestle under his chin. His cool skin should be revolting, but you had long grown conditioned to it. Now your only concern is to sink into him, morph into him.

“You understand now… why you cannot leave.”

“I can’t.” You whispered against his skin, fascinated by the shiver your breath provoked. You thought of your letters, the bright smile of of the niece you’d never met. “I can’t stay, I need to see her.”

“No!” He barked out, snapping you back to the present situation. “Never.” And then, sensing your escalating distress appeased you. His lips laid kisses atop your head, brushing against your forehead while his hold tightened around you. “You cannot, anyone. Never can I share you, can I let them spoil your beauty. They would destroy you, rip you from me.”

You frowned, even as you sank further into his arms, you had left so many projects undone. “But… I have so much work to do...”

“Not anymore.” Erik shushed you, his hand snaking around your throat to seize it in a firm grasp. The pressure captivated you, your entire being centering on the contact. “I have long waited for you. I long most for beauty, I lust for it.”

You looked up on your own. Your heart jumped at the sight of his face but you didn’t move, unable, unwilling to. He looked down at you, as if bewitched by your fresh tears, the soft sniffling that still escaped you. His arm around your waist brought you closer still as he rose form the floor, bringing you to your feet.

“I cannot let yours be tainted.” Erik laid a kiss on your temple, whispering sweetly into your ear. “It belongs to me alone. _Jusqu’à la fin des temps. 8_”

“Erik...” The plea in your voice didn’t faze you in the slightest, and in between your pleas, your lips met and lingered until you ran breathless, caught in this wild passion which you knew you couldn’t fight.

Soon, his music filled the house by the lake and wordless, you listened and bowed to its demands.

* * *

Alternate Ending

The morning air is good, bringing some much needed heat against your cheeks and fingers. Caught up in your inner turmoil, it’s destabilizing to witness the plainest of positive emotions on Parisians’ faces. The genuine happiness, carelessness you observe while walking through the gardens makes you ache for your own.

Each step taken have taken an immense toll instead of the peace of mind you’d come looking for. A dog small enough to fit inside of a bag barks, children run round carefree, ducks waddle along the bank. This portrait is perfection incarnate. And it is all tainted by the theater on the other side of the park. Just a turn, a little swirl and you’d see the avenue leading to it, its beauty glaring you in the face, the horrors it bore in its breast forever unknown and unseen.

_You’d woken up slowly, something awful pounding inside your skull but by God, the real hurt originated from your chest. Setting aside the covers you didn’t remember getting under – your hands jumped to your collar, you winced at the scratch of the cloth atop of your breasts. Every buttons set aside, you stared wide-eyed at the litany of marks, bruises and bites littering the skin atop your breasts. A painful feeling of mortification flooded your senses – it had all been real._

_The nightstand and bedframe had been neatly rearranged, the girls were clearly breathing and dead asleep under theirs covers. Everything was in its place, anything that should be here was here._

_Once more, you ran your fingers over the hurt and bruised skin, cursing the ghosts of desire awakening afterwards. Bitter tears slid down your cheeks, you clutched your collar shut and hurried to get dressed, cursing your own stupidity and the phantom’s wandering hands._

_Gingerly, you had run a hand where your thighs met and sighed in relief when there was no blood to be found._

How does one cope, you wonder, how will you? You’d just walked out, you’d be late to your station even if you ran back right now. The costume could have been completed by now, you could have eaten, began packing even! Yet the single thought of going back was tearing you apart because you knew deep down that if you did head back, you would fall into his devilish circle of lust and despair again. You could not escape it.

“Mademoiselle,” A voice calls out, attracting many eyes upon the approaching man. You’d already recognized the voice, never mind the accent. The white of his clothes throw you off, you’ve grown used to his black attires. Seeing him like this certainly draws the eye and you clear your face of all emotions from your past thoughts before le Persan can pick up on any.

“Monsieur,” You clear your throat, attempting to focus on your discussion from last night and rid all else from your mind.

Finally coming up to your level, he drops his pace to walk alongside you. “I had hoped we might be able to talk.”

“Should we?” Adding before you can think too much about it, “Are you to corral me back inside this damned hellhole?”

It is as if a shadow has fallen over his face, dark stuff swirling in his eyes but his voice is steady, “You have seen him again I take it.”

“He’d...” Your hands are shaking, hah. It’s almost laughable considering what you’d gotten up to last night and how willingly you’d fallen. But this time it is ire that possesses you. “He had _drugged_ them, drugged--! _Me!_ And you knew! You knew all this time!” Your rising voice must cause such a spectacle but you can’t help it, no matter how many people who might overhear, “You’ve let him prey on us, you--! You’ve let him kill Drystan, you’ve let--”

“ _Shh_!” He hushed you, voice rising well above yours. Your hands still shook but your face grew pinched. Sucking a long breath through your nose, you awaited the rest. He glanced about, “I think it would be best to finish this conversation in a more… private setting.”

“What will you do then,” You bit out, ignoring his resigned look. “Set up my suicide?”

A long sigh left him, his shoulders collapsing as if their air had been drawn out of him. “Erik would do much worse to me if any harm came to you.”

Confusion pushes your face to clear, it doesn’t stop you from wringing your hands. “Erik?”

It is a slap in the face, the bites and bruises along your collarbone and chest ache and burn, his skin is cold but the simplest contact yields to an all-consuming fire. Echoing, as if in a dream, his voice – _Eri_ _k, my Eurydice._

“Mademoiselle,” He started softly, far more mindful than you to the crowd. He puts his hands up, treating you like a wild animal that might bolt at any point in time. “My apartment is near, I assure you I am doing this for your own safety. You’ve seen what he’s done to that man.… to you. He’ll do it again, there’s no questioning it.” He talks with his hands at time and you cannot look away from the gold shining at his fingers. It distracts from the burning truth in his eyes, “But please you need to trust me.”

You think for a moment, turning on your heel to look around. Rue de Rivoli borders the Tuilerie gardens. It is a far better alternative than to go back to the Opéra Populaire anyway. Mollified, you agree to heading out and in silence, you both walk towards the neat rows of Haussmann’s apartments. The same rumbling sentiment of not belonging from so many months ago reemerge and you snap into a fit of laughter, barely abated by le Persan’s inquiring look – how crazy must you be, pursued by a manic murderer and feeling shame over a dress of all things!

You’re sat down by the window in a plush red seat while he goes to busy himself in the kitchen. He has no maid, he says when he comes with lukewarm tea from earlier this morning. They can be extremely nosy at times – you wouldn't know truly.

An unspoken grace radiates through every of his movements, precise and quick when he sits down himself to pour a cup. There’s an alarming similarity, the same one you’d noticed before, between him and… _Erik_. After last night’s events, it’s more than obvious.

“How long have you known him?” You ask, observing the cup he holds out with justified vitriol. He takes sip from it, offering his own. You accept it but keep it into your hands rather than drink it.

He burrows himself in the seat, crossing his legs. “I first met him in Tehran.” He looks solemnly into his cup. “It must have been decades ago now… He was a frail little thing but he had spirit and such intelligence.” He took the porcelain cup to his lips and sipped. “If luck is on your side, you meet a mind like his own every century. Destiny was cruel to him, blessing him with talent… but, _cursing_ him with a body like his own.”

“What do you mean?” You frown, shaking your head. “What is wrong with him?”

He’s surprised, remaining silent for an instant. “His face, half of his body is….” One of his hands adorned with gold rings and jewels gestures to his face. “Malformed, disfigured ever since birth.”

Your hand shakes and before an accident may happen, you set down your drink on the low table between le Persan and you. The porcelain makes a rattling noise against the wooden surface.

“The mask,” He starts again, “was made to hide the deformity.”

You close your eyes, straining to focus on what little you’d seen of his face. Immediately, you’re overwhelmed by the memory of his voice, the flash of white of his mask overpowers what little you’d seen of the rest of his face. The illicit touches had so easily distracted you, you hadn’t even bothered to examine his god damned face!

You’d only noticed his eyes, the strange yellow tint and the lighter colored eye – the intensity in his gaze.

He went on then, nostalgia likely brewing inside of him, and retold tales of his time in Persia with the boy. He spoke with far more care of the training and, hesitantly, of the man’s prowess with the Punjab lasso. “You and I both witnessed his skill with it,” He said, carefully choosing his words. “I wonder why, though, he would make this man his victim.”

Shaken still from the testimony regarding this hateful child reigned by anger trained to kill, you find it hard to properly respond. Yet in front of such brazen truth, you cannot help but share your own. From the marriage to the beatings, to the many places you’d hidden her over the course of the last year. Afterwards, you talked about the assault, the gloves, bracelet and the missing cross and the incident with your landlady that had forced you to move into the Opéra Populaire.

“It was rather obvious then,” You said with a good amount of anger behind your words, “That he thought he was protecting me.”

“Didn’t he?” Le Persan wondered out loud, “Without this Drsytan about, it seems like your demons are far behind you.”

“He violated me,” You spoke crudely, speaking over him near the end. The simplest thought he might have ‘helped’ you before was nothing more than a sour note in your mouth. Heavy and confused memories of warping tunnels and the sound of water tainted your thoughts. “He drugged the girls in our room and…” It is hard at first but you retell the story of what happened, omitting the crasser details of course.

When you looked up from your hands, he was shaking his head, legs spread, elbows on his knees. “I never thought...” The harsh foreign Farsi words he spoke next could only be curses. He ran a hand through his raven hair, knocking his fez out of place as he did so. Strangely enough, he bore it no mind and got up from his seat. “You must leave.” He says, pacing about. “Go back to London, anywhere but Paris. You can’t stay in this city... this country even.”

“I had planned on leaving this week after I had enough funds.” You hurried to explain. His concern felt alien but drew such relief from you, it felt… _nice_ to be believed. “I have an order for a baron that soon will be ready. And Monsieur Lefèvre will--”

“Oh, bother Lefèvre!” He exploded, heading into an adjacent room to the salon. You felt blood rush to your cheeks at the exclamation despite it all.

“Monsieur, please!” You got up about to follow him into the library when he resurfaced, you jumped out of the way after noticing the fierce, livid look on his face. Although it would only be after taking notice of the holstered pistol in his hands that you truly panicked, “You cannot expect to walk in there and gun him down!”

“After all he’s done!” He bellowed, and you flinched from the harsh tone. You knew his anger was not directed towards you but your heart seized in fear.

“You said it yourself!” You tried to placate, appealing to his reason. “He built this opera, he knows where to expect you.” The thought alone of him found hanging in his home or forever lost in the bowels of the theater made your heart sink. “You cannot risk your life for my sake.”

It took a minute but he soon seemed defeated, the wind taken out of his sails. His chest rose slowly before he let out a breath, “You are kinder than most. I do not believe anyone who went through what you did would spare him.”

“It isn’t about him,” You murmured, adverting your gaze. “Please, let’s be done with all this violence, I can’t bear it anymore.”

He nodded and as an afterthought, walked back to the library, hushing you in with a wave of his hand. He walked behind a large desk, kneeling in front of a strongbox. Inside of it he stored his pistol and took out a small wooden box that he sat on the surface of the desk.

“Monsieur?” You gasped when he opened the box and revealed the contents of it. Beautiful gem-encrusted and golden jewelry were placed on top of a pile of banknotes. You looked away, embarrassed.

Deft fingers worked through some francs, setting to the side notes as he went, counting in Farsi. “This should be enough for the train and ferry--” He slid a pristine hundred franc note towards you, you stared, never had you seen this much money in your life. “And this,” He spoke again, setting next to it a few other notes and coins whose number made your head spin, “would help replace anything that you have to leave here.”

“No.” You interjected when he laid down another banknote. You felt faint reading the number of zeros printed on it. “No, that… I cannot accept this.” You’d noticed this much money had been over half of what the lock box had contained, it was wrong for you to take this money. “I told you I would get everything in order by Saturday.”

“And by Saturday you will be back down there, in his home beyond the lake.” He said, arranging the money on the desk before closing the box and locking the strongbox again. He turned back around and despite your escalating complaints, pushed the money forward. “If you go back today, he will abuse you again. There’s no fighting this, take it all and find your sister. You cannot stay in France.”

“I know, I know...” You sighed. If your mother could see you now… By God, what had happened to the Londoner you’d once been. You remembered your days on the street with your sister, quick feet and sharp wit. Never had you once thought you’d be reduced to this, ruined and penniless.

“Will you let me write to you?” You blurted out, immediately regretting how earnest it’d come out.

“I don’t think it would be wise.” He said with an air of finality. Before you could feel worse however, you quipped, “I will anyway, I do know your address now.”

He smiled, a real smile when you accepted the money. “Alright then.”

* * *

You reach the station when it is way past noon. All the while you’ve stewed in your worries – you’d left a lot behind. Your money and jewelry you’d kept on you but your clothes, designs, fabric and letters… All were left to fester inside your trunk. Surely there would be more trouble surrounding your contract and you fell into a deep spiral of doubt.

“It’s alright. The letters I will deal with.” Nadir had reassured you throughout the ride but nothing could be done. You still felt your stomach twists into knots at the mere thought of leaving to find your sister and young niece or staying and falling into the Phantom’s grasp once more. “This is the only reasonable--”

“The only reasonable thing I can do, yes I know.” You winced at your harsh tone, “I’m sorry. God, I don’t know what came over me.”

“It is a major upheaval,” He justified, his good nature seemed to make it impossible for you to annoy him or get on his bad side. “You’re bound to get flustered.”

You stared at the ticket in your hand, second class it read. Now _that_ you’d felt flustered over, _a waste of good money_ you’d called it.

“Are you sure you’ll be alright?” He shook his head, “I know you said it was fine but please, I’m worried.”

You were nudged apart and to the side by a band of young children running wildly through the train station. It was large, yes, but Gare du Nord was forever and always teeming with crowds of people knocking elbows to get on board of their trains. Your own was meant to depart in a mere thirty minutes and in less than five hours, you would be boarding the 8pm ferry for Portsmouth and from there…

“I can handle him easily enough,” He explained one last time, guiding you towards the correct platform. “If I play my cards right, he may never know.” Most likely sensing you were still unconvinced, he said, “I will be careful, please stop worrying about me. I _was_ his senior in most disciplines in Tehran.”

A bell rang, its loud chime clamoring along the platform. An announcement was made the train was now boarding, help saddled with luggage busied themselves around you, people from all classes walked and pushed their way to their respective wagon.

“I believe this is it,” Nadir said coolly, “You should get in quickly...” He kept on talking, his cat-like eyes inspecting the waiting train. Already smoke was spreading from the kindling of the firebox.

Throwing all caution to the wind, you poised your hands on his shoulders and brought him down to your height and much loudly than you’d like, landed a kiss on his cheek. You found yourself not particularly caring about the looks that tryst must have gotten you but more of his own reaction.

You hadn’t had time to put on makeup and so he had no need to worry about any of your rouge on his cheek, you said in one breath when he took a hand to his cheek in stunned silence.

His mouth opened but you spoke over him, thanking him loudly even as you felt heat amounting into your face.“ You have done a lot more than… You didn’t have to. Thank you.”

He stuttered at first, coughing into his fist before speaking properly, “No, huh, no need. Please, I...”

Suddenly you asked yourself if all those tales of exotic harems full of scantily-clad women and gossips of the wild passion in the shah’s palace bore any sliver of truth. He looked so meek, much more than you’d expected despite his gentle nature.

Once more, your eyes met. An embarrassed smile wormed its way onto his lips and he laughed with you. He shoved a hand into his coat pocket and took out a book that had first you had confused for his notebook. Nadir held it out to you and you wordlessly took it.

“Jane Eyre,” He explained even as you read the cover. “The voyage will be long, I thought you might want to have something to distract you.”

“Thank you, truly. For this and...” Another chime of the departing bell echoed over the chatter around you. “And everything else.”

You bid each other farewell, both equally flustered and you hurried to find your seat. You heard the doors closing as you sat down, apologizing to the passenger next to you as you did so. In a matter of minutes the train lurched into a slow march, the wheels roaring their terrible roar as they began turning. It was quite sad that you were seating opposite of the platform and couldn’t look at Nadir as you left. You opened the novel to the first page instead, slowly as the train made its way out of the station and soon out of Paris.

It was alright, you thought as you observed the scenery go by. A weight lifted off your chest and a smile drew on your lips even as the bruises and profound bites from yesterday’s abuse still burned and ached under your shift.

You may never forget the voice, the hypnotizing songs, the cold and powerful hands and lips over your skin or the intense stare. But the pain remained fresh and with each reminiscent beat of it, the oppressive shadow of the ghost grew dimmer in your eyes. In its stead, you imagined the shy look of your niece, your sister’s surprised cheers, Nadir’s bashfulness and his kindness.

Yes, you thought, it was going to be alright.

* * *

French/English translation

1 Tête de linotte: An air-head, a scatterbrain

2 Arrondissements: Parisian districts/boroughs

3 Taisez-vous: Hush (formal form of address)

4 Dormez: Sleep (Formal form of address)

5 Ingénue: naive girl

6 Auberge: an old term for inn/hotel

7 _La petite garce du troisème étage:_ _The little slut from the third floor_

8 _Jusqu’à la fin des temps :_ Until the end of times

**Author's Note:**

> About the reader  
> I've spent too much time than I'm willing to admit how the reader should behave as the daughter of a middle class family that had grown destitute after the main breadwinner had died. A workhouse seemed appropriate for the mother to raise her children in as it could assure her place in the workforce.
> 
> Reader's sister is meant to despise this way of life, 'fancying herself a lady' may have been too strong an expression but it seemed right from my modern point of view. Gangs ran wild in mid to late 19th century London, developing quickly across the city with the help of public transportation. It made sense to me that she would marry the first man with enough money, no matter how ill-obtained, that could get her out of her mother's house and older sister's constant nagging -- no offense reader. Evidently, it doesn't work out always, being married to a gangster. I really wanted to get that fallen woman trope in there lol, I'm terribly sorry if it seems forced.
> 
> Reader is the older sister, leaving her to provide for her sister and mother as the former never seemed able to hold onto a proper job and the latter's health deteriorated. The reader is supposed to live a straight life, refusing to acknowledge her disdain and resentment for her family since they left her in a very poor situation after passing/leaving for Manchester. The reader cannot reconcile with her own wants, her attraction for the phantom or her dreams of grandeur (hence the very expensive velvet red dress she splurges on). I imagined her as a seamstress simply because I've grown tired of the reader having to be a copy of Christine, I'm not a singer myself and I figured that many people likely to read this story wouldn't be either (no offense to singers, we love y'all).
> 
> About Paris in 'Victorian' times  
> I chose the reader's lodgings to be in the Quartier Latin because by the 1870's, it was already a hub for aspiring artists and poor musicians. It's also a very heavy-handed reference (like the red dress) to La Bohème, an opera centering on downtrodden artists living in squalor and yet aspiring to love and inevitably ends with the death of innocence.  
> The lodging's owners in question may come off as mean or heartless but those are the times they live in, even nowadays knowing a building is a hotspot for prostitution would greatly devalue its worth (no offense to sex workers ily). You can imagine how hard it would be to run a proper house for young women in such a quarter and times, one allegation and you're done for.  
> I've tried to look up older rare names just in case. Sorry if you find your own name is mentioned!
> 
> About the references  
> As stated before, I tried to make the reader a Musetta who lavished in the attention and luxury during the gala but who adopted Mimi's attitude when working -- using the guise of innocence.  
> The image of Carmen is purely out of Erik's mind -- a fiery gypsy seductress who cares not whose hearts she breaks and ends up stabbed by Don José, the man she dumped.  
> “If you wish to make yourself a Miranda, then I be your Caliban.” -- it's rape, it's just implied rape. From Shakespeare's The Tempest wherein Caliban, an ugly 'savage' tries to rape the beautiful Miranda.  
> Erik's song is directly from La Traviatta (yeah, that fallen woman shit is really overused I'm sorry)  
> Literally The Mikado references all over the place. There's no deeper meaning, I just love this damn opera  
> Jane Eyre -- choosing autonomy over love (but really it's not love, let's not kid ourselves)  
> "Truth has started -- a fine case indeed" -- From Leroux's Mystery of the Yellow Room  
> Femme vivante -- Living wife, from Leroux's original Poto
> 
> About money conversion/salary  
> I've tried to establish a correct weekly wage for reader; about 25 francs/1 pound that could be augmented later on with this 'anonymous' patron's donation. As reader mans a sewing machine, she should be paid around 16 shillings but I bumped it to 1 pound since a costumier is more specialized than a common seamstress.  
> My estimate for Nadir's gift would be around 400 francs or 15 pounds. I know it doesn't sound like much but then, according to my sources it would do much more than cover her traveling fees and offer a very easy few months for her entire family even without a job.
> 
> A few helpful sites:  
> Pound's worth throughout the ages  
> https://www.nationalarchives.gov.uk/currency-converter/#currency-result  
> Historical currency conversion  
> https://www.historicalstatistics.org/Currencyconverter.html
> 
> Victorian times' wages/cost of living  
> http://victorian-era.org/the-victorian-era-wages-salary-earnings.html  
> http://www.victorianweb.org/economics/wages2.html
> 
> I'm sorry this was so long, I hope you enjoyed it!


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